


Pandaemonium

by lonelywalker



Category: Brimstone
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-18
Updated: 2011-04-18
Packaged: 2017-10-18 08:12:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,442
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/186799
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lonelywalker/pseuds/lonelywalker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ezekiel Stone's adventures in Hell (abridged).</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pandaemonium

_Go to Heaven for the climate, Hell for the company.  
-Mark Twain_

Ezekiel Stone dies in a blaze of gunfire and blood, and wakes up in flames. He later discovers that the fire is mainly for the sake of appearances. The Devil would infinitely prefer to pick his furniture from an IKEA catalog, perhaps with just a few gargoyles lining the walls for old time's sake.

When he had thought about Hell, about an afterlife, before his actual death, Zeke had always assumed that the suffering would be purely existential. His body would be dead, of course, one way or another. And even though cartoon depictions of flames and meathooks are all very visceral, he had doubted that those were really the way to hurt someone's immortal soul. However, immortal soul or not, Zeke has a very real body in Hell. He can pinch his arm. He can stub his toe. His teeth get a horribly yucky coating after a while that makes him long for some Colgate and mouthwash.

But there's no torture - not in the sense of otherworldly beings shredding the skin from his body, or even being made to endlessly push a rock up a hill. In the physical sense it's no worse than being in prison. On the existential level, though...

Zeke is dead. And he knows it. And there's absolutely nothing he can do, except endlessly revisit his own foolish decisions and imagine Rosalyn's reaction, how devastated she'll be, and, eventually, how she'll be in the arms of some other man.

There's nothing new to think about. There's no news in Hell. No movie nights. And every other person he meets is wrapped up in their own personal torments, some barely recognizable as human beings.

After a while - he has no idea how long - of having nothing to do but wander and think and talk to himself, with no need to eat, drink, shit, or sleep, he wonders how long it will take for him to go mad, and whether it might be beneficial to try to get an early start on that process.

The next day, which he assumes is a Thursday (he's always hated Thursdays), he meets the Devil.

He's blase enough about Hell by that point to be a little bit disappointed that the Devil doesn't have cloven hooves, horns, and a tail. That, at least, would be entertaining. But, no, the Devil walks subterranean corridors in the form of a man, all dark eyes and sharp teeth and a mocking smile Zeke instinctively wants to hit.

"Detective!" the Devil says, homing in on him as if the place isn't teeming with millions of damned souls. "Do you know how delightful it is to have another police officer as my guest? I have the _utmost_ respect for your profession. Our jobs are so similar... and I _do_ so love those wonderful paperback crime novels you find in airport bookstores. They put the most terrible thoughts in people's minds."

And he stops, and looks at Zeke, expecting a response.

Zeke only stares. And, eventually, blinks.

The Devil speaks English, if with a slightly theatrical bearing and an accent that might conceivably be from anywhere. Of course, it isn't his native language. English isn't old enough. What is? Latin? Greek? Perhaps the symbols Zeke had taken for graffiti on some of the older walls?

Zeke tries to cough the dust out of his throat. "You... you're the Devil?"

The Devil beams.

"And you read _crime_ novels?"

This, somehow, is not the existential debate he might have expected.

"Oh, I read everything. Literature used to be so terribly dull, you know. It was all about recording sales, and then of course it was about whichever god was on top at the time... The twentieth century has really been a boon for the industry, though." The Devil frowns and looks around. "I just know I left a Barbara Cartland here somewhere..."

Clinging onto whatever sanity he might have left, Zeke forces himself to find the reality in the situation, to capitalize on whatever opportunity this might be. He's interrogated murderers and rapists, the truly evil, some even with similar flairs for the dramatic. And he's always managed to come out on top.

He makes himself smile. "So you're the actual Devil. No horns?"

The Devil raises his eyebrows, lifts a hand to brush back glossy brown hair. "No? Well, I suppose not. Sometimes they're _quite_ extravagant." He takes a step closer, leans in so that Zeke can feel the Devil's breath on his face, smell the Listerine. "So what _do_ you see?"

"I... You're..." Zeke waves his hand, just as he begins to understand the question. Hell is about perception. It's a mind game. And the Devil... Could be a ten-storey red, horned beast, but in Zeke's mind he's a man. A man with striking looks that might be ugly, might be handsome depending on the light, depending on Zeke's mood. "You look like a kid I used to beat up in school."

"Ahhh." The Devil straightens up, thumbs in the pockets of his overcoat. "Interesting choice." And his head whips around to focus on someone else, far out of Zeke's sight. "Well, it's been a pleasure, Mr. Stone. I'm sure we'll meet again."

And then he's gone.

***

Over the endless, timeless time that follows, Zeke almost manages to convince himself that the entire encounter had only been a figment of his imagination. Whenever he finds a place to sit, to lie, and tries to sleep, he only finds bizarre, senseless nightmares that are even worse than his waking reality. And thinking about Ros, about his friends in the mortal world, only makes the torment worse.

Is she still crying over him, lying awake at night, afraid to step outside? Has she moved on, remarried, had children with another man? Have years passed? Centuries? Is she dead and gone and long forgotten? Which is worst? Which is best?

He finds, crouched in a corner with rocks digging into his back, that he can no longer cry. He can no longer bleed. Suicide is, of course, pointless, but he craves the pain, the _relief_ of feeling warm blood gushing down his forearms, of taking an action that has results. Masturbation is pointless. He's numb. Lifeless. A eunuch. And what would a moment of pleasure be, anyway, in these depths of despair? It would barely scratch the surface.

He sees glimpses of the Devil occasionally, or thinks he does - a brilliant smile in the gloom, flashes of fire in his eyes, of a well-muscled body grinding against a woman, and, just once, a light so dazzling - _beyond_ dazzling - that he can barely see.

He's an angel, Zeke knows, and finally understands. A fallen angel, condemned to the underworld like the rest of them, but an angel nonetheless. And, out of the corner of his eye, Zeke can almost glimpse that surging lifeforce, the inhuman _power_ of him.

It's the only thing in the whole of Hell that makes him feel anything worth a damn.

"Mr. Stone."

The Devil is lounging by a roughly-hewn pillar, turning the pages of a novel with those long, perfectly-manicured nails of his. Product of insanity or not, Zeke is more than bored enough to stop and talk. "Good book?" His mouth feels as if he hasn't uttered a word in years.

Eyebrows are raised. "No, but then I'm not a particular fan of good books, by any definition." He straightens up, chucking the book at Zeke's midsection with the aim and power of a frustrated pitcher. "How are you enjoying my humble realm? Feeling regret for your crimes, yet? Ready to meet the parole board?"

"There's a parole board?" Zeke examines the book. It seems to be a Stephen King novel that's been translated into French. And then put through an industrial grinder.

The Devil waves a hand airily. "Of course not. I was merely extending a metaphor. People often appreciate talking in terms they understand. Since you're a detective..."

"I'm not a criminal," Zeke says sharply.

"No? Well, you're in good company." The Devil takes out a notebook from one of his voluminous pockets, and licks the tip of a finger before flicking through the pages. "I have literally millions of guests who have been damned for activities that weren't declared illegal in their places of residence. Suicide, for example. It's rather difficult to punish anyone for that in the mortal world. Ah, yes, _adultery_. Homosexuality... I do miss the days boys used to be tied to rocks and thrown off ships. And worshiping false idols... The jury does seem to be out on whether liking Madonna counts. What do you think?"

Zeke looks at him blankly. "I killed someone. I know. But he was a rapist. There have got to be extenuating circumstances. What about moral... something?"

The Devil sighs, and puts away the notebook. "Moral something. Indeed. If you want to get into it, I'm not much of a criminal either, Ezekiel."

"You're the _Devil_."

"I'm a political prisoner. I led a revolution against a despot and was thrown into the pit. Think of me as a Nelson Mandela of the prehistoric era."

"A what?"

Another sigh. "My point is, we're all entirely innocent from our own points of view, and entirely damned in reality. You might as well get used to it."

Zeke hands back the book. "Have you? Gotten used to it, I mean?"

There's a flash of something in those dark eyes. "Home is wherever you hang your victims, Ezekiel. And there are certain fringe benefits."

"Yeah?" Presumably they're not talking about a dental plan.

The Devil reaches over and pings Zeke's ear. "The longer you're here, the less pain you feel. And, eventually, the more pain you'll be able to inflict."

He can feel fire in the Devil's fingertips as they linger on his skin far longer than would be socially acceptable anywhere but Hell or a gay club. It's not pain, exactly, not yet. More like sitting a little too close to grandma's fire after a day spent rolling in the snow, feeling your body thaw, knowing it might hurt later but not caring.

Zeke swallows. "And what good would that be?"

"Oh..." A thumb and forefinger stroke down Zeke's earlobe, drift to his jaw, rubbing the wrong way against stubble. "You're an intelligent man, Detective. I'm sure you can work it out."

He's gone before Zeke can grab onto him - a flash of light and a vague smell of sulfur in the air that might just be the Devil's idea of dramatic flair.

Zeke turns, and walks deeper into Hell.

***

No one touches him, despite the monsters he encounters - pale shadows of human beings, with long curled nails that might as well be claws, or creatures that have never had any relation to humanity at all. In his wanderings, Zeke begins to see the pain, and all the torture he might have once expected Hell to contain. But it's not inflicted by the Devil. It's begged for and carried out by the damned themselves, one tormented soul crying to another for hope and release.

 _Feeling_. It's a currency deeper and darker and more meaningful than anything else could possibly be. And Zeke, who has ceased to stub his toe, has pinched his own flesh to feel nothing but a dull pressure, still feels the burn of the Devil's fingers against his skin.

Perhaps it's a sign to all of them, all the lonely souls who glance at him as he goes by. He's marked. Owned. The Devil's plaything. If only there were a mirror, or even a pool of water, so that he could look himself in the eyes once more. Are they still blue? A dull, misted-over white? Endlessly dark, like those of the Devil himself? And is there a true mark there, running from his ear to his chin, scarred into the flesh?

He tries to feel and ends up scratching. The skin never comes away bloody under his fingernails, but he would be more relieved if it did.

"We are all thankful for our wounds," the Devil says to him in a bedroom that can't possibly be real. Standing in the doorway, Zeke can feel warm air on his face, can suddenly imagine the immense relief of sinking into a gloriously soft bed at the end of a weary day.

"This is an illusion," he says, his voice dull, his mind ready to accept it all nevertheless. The Devil certainly does know temptation.

The Devil shrugs. "Everything is."

It takes all the effort and willpower Zeke has left to stay standing where he is, not to throw himself into the blankets and pillows and just sleep, endlessly without any desire to wake.

He lifts a hand to trace the Devil's touch on his jaw, and looks at the angel before him - endless light condensed by his own mind into a man, and not an evil, monster of a man, either. Zeke can still see the light breaking through those taunting eyes, that bitter smile.

"Come here," the Devil says, and Zeke waits a moment before obeying, before letting his feet tread on a lush, carpeted floor. He only wants to make a point, to resist just a fraction.

He doesn't resist at all when the Devil's fingers push through his hair, grasp the back of his head, and drag him into a kiss.

It's Zeke's first time kissing a man, let alone an angel, and all he can think about is that he's taller than the _Devil_ before the burning starts in earnest.

He should pull back from the pain. His body should do it even if his mind resists, but he only wants more, closing his eyes against reality and jamming his fingers against the Devil's ribs. The fact that the Devil even has ribs, that he's warm, that his breathing is just as urgent as Zeke's, is somehow a reassurance. And Zeke tips them both backwards onto the bed.

"I'm in need of a moral man," the Devil says, his hair a mess against pristine white sheets, his eyes reflecting an expression of perpetual amusement.

Zeke is holding him down, a lapel in each fist, appearing to fight but reluctant to simply back away. That feeling of a warm body beneath his, of another person's arousal sparking his own. After so long... It might have been weeks or years or decades since he lay with Rosalyn, since Rosalyn even thought about him, but he remembers that feeling of naked skin against naked skin. He wants it back.

"What makes you think I'm moral?" Zeke sits back a little, ripping the halves of the Devil's shirt apart as he does so. He'd like to dig in his nails and see if he can make _this_ man bleed, but he finds himself stroking instead, feeling warmth under his fingertips, feeling a real, living body rather than the plastic mannequin he might have expected. "I killed a man. I'm in Hell. Maybe you need to have a recruitment drive up in Heaven if you need a good guy."

The Devil, damn him, has closed his eyes, tilted his head back a little, and shifted his hips up against Zeke's, the very picture of contentment. "Just look at yourself, Ezekiel. Look at how you see _me_."

For the first time in his life, Zeke has a rather sizable erection jabbing him in the stomach. He doubts that his childhood priest would ever have wanted him to be in this situation, Devil or not. "I want you. Isn't that proof enough that I'm damned?"

"Oh, I know you're damned." Eyes open once more, the Devil's hands carefully remove Zeke's coat. "This _is_ Hell, after all. I'm under absolutely no illusions. But I do have a rather limited number of options, and you've always seemed to be the best candidate for the job."

Zeke can't get out of his coat fast enough, his hand going to the Devil's jaw, holding him still so that Zeke can kiss him again. "Job? What? The Grim Reaper's apprentice? Covering the Angel of Death's maternity leave?"

"No, no, no." The Devil chuckles. "I need a bloodhound, Ezekiel. A _detective_. And, honestly, most of the people with experience in that area down here are either knuckleheads or the type who enjoy the chase far too much to ever complete the task. You're different. I'm reasonably sure I can _trust_ you to do the job."

"Because I want you?" His lips are pressed to the Devil's jugular, craving that lifeforce, that reminder of life itself.

"Because you haven't forgotten your humanity," the Devil murmurs, tugging Zeke's hair, rubbing up against him. "Because you haven't forgotten mine."

***

He agrees to track down one escaped prisoner, and discovers that the total is really 113. He assumes that the prisoners will be mortal, just like the men and women he had tracked down on the job. But they're more demonic than human, with powers that can burn through metal, and can only be stopped if Zeke manages to destroy their eyes. And all Zeke has for help are a gun, tattoos marking every inch of his body, and occasional nagging assistance from his diabolical employer.

Deals. Devils. Details. At least he's out of Hell. And if only fifteen years have passed since his death, the world is still recognizable, Ros is still alive somewhere. He can find hope again. There's a reason to struggle and fight and _seize_ that second chance that's being dangled in front of him like a carrot he might never reach.

"You're a very restless sleeper," the Devil says when he rolls over just past midnight, and finds a collection of elbows and knees jabbing into his back. The Prince of Darkness is naked in Zeke's bed, covers pulled up to his nipples, wearing reading glasses as he concentrates on a rather singed copy of _IT_. "Nightmares?"

For a moment, Zeke has to wonder if any of the events since he had woken up on the subway had been real at all. Hell is perception. Is this all just the Devil's sick joke, to let him think that he's free, and then...

But there's no other way.

Zeke turns over again, pulling the covers back over himself. "I have a pretty good excuse."

"Mm. Have you ever been afraid of clowns? Stroke of genius, I think. Can you imagine any other horror that's introduced to children at such a young age? It's _wonderful_. I do appreciate the ingenuity of man's inhumanity to man."

Zeke grunts. Rubs his eyes. Blinks at the time on the alarm clock. "Can't you go and talk to yourself in the bathroom?"

There's a pause, and then the Devil rolls over onto his side, his body flush against Zeke's, every sharp, burning angle of it, every ounce of hard, sculpted muscle. "You can't get rid of me so easily, Ezekiel. And you know that we need each other."

He wishes he could deny it, but the warmth of that inhuman flesh is the first thing he's felt all day, and he can't help nudging back into it, letting the Devil fling an arm around him, tilting his head to allow for hot kisses against his neck. "For one hundred and nine more prisoners."

"Mm hmm. And then you'll have your precious second chance, and your life, and perhaps even dear Rosalyn. And I'll have..." A chuckle. " _Peace of mind_. Why on earth do you have so many _clothes_ on, Ezekiel?"

Zeke sighs, and sits up to take off his t-shirt before the Devil threatens to rip it to shreds. "You could have a second chance as well, you know. You could do things right. Make things better."

"As you and so many others have very succinctly put it, I'm _the Devil_. I'm allergic to redemption. I break out in hives."

"You're Lucifer," Zeke whispers, a mere breath in the night air, as he settles down again, kicking away his shorts. "You're light. You're an _angel_..."

And if there are glimpses of Heaven behind those dark eyes, Zeke can only imagine as the Devil scowls. "Don't try to get on my good side, Ezekiel. I don't have one."

Zeke kisses him anyway, to shut him up, to prove a point, to feel arousal and desire and _life_ once more.

Deal with the Devil it may be, but the Devil needs him too. Needs him more than either of them understand. And Zeke has been to Hell. This is only forever.

Lucifer laughs into his mouth, and kisses him back.


End file.
